


The Bench

by bulletandsophia



Series: Endless [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Immortality, Love, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 08:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8790109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulletandsophia/pseuds/bulletandsophia
Summary: When time is the only thing he has.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Took a break with Some Secrets About Love to write this! Enjoy! :)

The leaves have longed since abandoned its branches.

He breathes, cold air escaping from his lips, and then tucks his hand deep in his dark jacket. He realizes too that it’s almost sunset—despite all of its glory hidden behind the thick gray clouds. But he knows it’s there. Like it always is.

_Like he always is_.

He’s walking slowly on the clear and already shoveled pathway of the park; head almost bowed down, hair gathered at the back of his head, boots hastily tied-up, shirt too thin for the weather but he doesn’t mind. He steps aside for those hurrying to get to the center or to those children running and laughing, quite oblivious to the amount of space they occupy so uninhibitedly.

Sometimes, when this happens, when children surround him and he hears of the melodic sounds of their laughter, it haunts him—like the ones do now; for he has heard so many versions over the years he now has a hard time recalling which laughter belongs to whom. And then, of course, there’s always this one certain laughter that escapes his mind all the time. He always tries to remember it but it’s been such a long time since he last heard it, it’s quite impossible to fully grasp what it was like. But he knew, in as much as his mind allows him to remember, it’s a laughter that he’s always heard from a far, like an echo from someone who is high up above, almost touching the clouds—a laughter that came from a child who once loved to climb high walls or broken towers.

Jon tries to recall the sound again but he cannot hear it.

And it is a painful thing, this notion of not remembering. And each time his memories fail him, it feels some sort of a betrayal because he just keeps on getting further and further away; each time, it’s becoming harder to grab it all back.

Somberly, Jon finally sits on a park bench— _his favorite bench_ —just right across the large, frozen pond. He watches as people in thick jackets and jumpers tie up their skates and gracefully slide away, pulling their companions along and laughing every time someone slips.

It is a full day today, he notices. But he welcomes the fullness of it despite the noise. It’s quite a change from his apartment with only his books that accompany him. And as he begins to relax and slightly enjoy it completely, the lampposts and the fairy lights that surround the park glows to life and to the delight and gasps of everyone around.

Jon smiles. _He’s just right on time_.

He now rubs his bare hands together, foolishly forgetting his gloves back in his apartment, and waits.

He waits for her. Again.

_Like he always does_.

She still likes the snow, she still likes winter—that he knows. And the first time he’s seen her in this park she was alone. She was also putting her ice skates then, sitting on this exact bench where he sits now. It had struck Jon to his core to see her and stopped in the middle of walking just to gape awkwardly as she tightened her laces.

_Normally_ , he always leaves her be as the sun comes down and allows himself hours to bury the newly gathered images and stories of her in his head; to compile them in this little box underneath the loose floorboard of his bedroom where he has already kept trinkets, letters, and what-nots he has collected from her over the years.

_Years and years_.

But seeing her up close at that moment then—right there in the middle of the city’s frozen park, just when the lights also turned on, brandishing more gold to her already fiery hair—was a peculiar notion he didn’t even hesitate to think was, perhaps, some sort of a gift, a joke, or an insult.

Because in this version, they have yet to bump into each other; as if they are forbidden to meet.

In this version, he is still a stranger.

So one can only imagine how his resistance almost shattered that day. She was _just_ on the bench, a couple of feet away, and gave him a smile—and gods, Jon felt this sudden want and sadness because it had truly been so, _so long of not being with her_.

Since then on, he has been obsessing to casually get a glimpse of her in the park instead of the stalking he had foolishly done so prior the incident.

It isn’t easy this time around, he admits, not when it took him years to feel her again—to feel her heart beating so closely as if she is just right beside him, to hear as if she has whispered his name in her dreams, to feel the restlessness of his feet, wanting nothing but to lead him where she is today.

It is hard work. Each and every time. But it is the only kind of work Jon knows now:

_His endless search for her_.

And Jon thinks he could never stop; in whichever lifetime.

When time stops and begins for her again, he patiently waits and brings with him all the memories they have shared in all the versions of her life. He brings it all even if she would eventually forget and he only has himself to recognize all of its beauty.

The beginning is by far the hardest to keep forever etched on his mind. More and more, it’s all becoming so hazy as if it were all just a dream, a story he had read in some book—where she was a princess, a _lady_ , and he was a bastard and yet he was also her knight and they have this remarkable love for direwolves and winter.

_Ghost_.

Jon laughs, remembering the whiteness of his fur, those striking red eyes; Ghost is one of the only few memories he is always able to keep close to his heart. But as for the rest of it, it’s all as if they are starting to get replaced by new memories and anecdotes from this never ending present and future of his life.

There are times when he wants it all to end, despite not knowing how to. But sometimes, in a lifetime where the gods (The old gods? The new gods? The seven gods? He was not even sure anymore.) have not forsaken him and it was a lifetime where she was so vivid and so near, he feels invincible—he feels relieved that he is able to experience so much of her all at once.

_Selfishness_ , he whispers to himself.

But was it not _selflessness_ that brought him into this situation in the first place? When sometimes in his dreams he hears a painful scream— _her scream_ —echo into a cold and dark night. Where they are beneath a white tree with red leaves and he feels a warm wetness on his hand, sticky and thick, but he cannot tear his gaze away from her face where tears have run down and then feel her hand that was first firm on his arm slowly lose its grip. In his dreams, she’s always only able to whisper two words:

_Save them_.

And Jon thinks, as far as he could remember, as far as he would let himself relieve the pain of it, that was exactly what he did. _He saved them_. And in saving them, this becomes of his life: an endless cycle of watching and hearing; of deliberating, of seeing, of waiting.

A life perhaps cursed the moment he struck his sword unto her chest, where it glowed brightly and felt astoundingly and blindingly alive and yet, she was not. It was anger at the sight of her limp body that urged him to finish them all. The _Others_ , they called them. But it was madness and grief that drove him to a promise of never wanting to part from her again—a promise that drew fire, the last that he had seen from that life, if it were all even real.

But in his dreams, the wolves still howled endlessly.

“Hey,”

Jon turns as a soft voice interrupts his thoughts.

_Finally_.

“May I?” she continues, gesturing at the seat beside him.

He takes a breath before nodding.

Jon feels the bench creak slightly as she sits but he is still quite petrified at the unexpectedness of it all.

_She’s here_ , he tells himself, urging his head to look away but does not have an ounce of motivation in his heart to do so. It’s the first time she’s been this close to him again.

The last time, they were in some meadow; her hair in some kind of roll and wave, her long skirt flowing beneath her, their legs intertwined as they lay on his truck after the long hours of their unplanned road trip.

Jon smiles as he remembers this, picturing the girl from that memory as the girl currently right in front of him and pretends as if nothing has changed and yet, _of course_ , everything has already changed.

The last time, she was a ballerina. Today, she runs a pastry shop.

She sits and grabs her bag, pulling out her white skates and starts to remove her boots. He feels her name creeping up on the tip of his tongue as he watches her every movement but Jon finds himself looking helpless and feeling hapless because what good would it do?

It would terrify her; a stranger knowing her name. And so, he just keeps quiet and tries hard not to be so intrusive.

But so suddenly again, she turns and offers a small smile. Jon realizes, perhaps words do not even matter as of this moment. 

“Thanks!” she exclaims. And then slowly, she walks towards the icy pond, balancing herself on the thin edges of her skates. She laughs when she wobbles a bit but pushes through the crowd.

She makes it in with a light jump and then gods, _how she flies_ —she swivels and turns and sways—arms almost outstretched, scarf billowing as she picks up her speed, a soft smile on her lips, a glowing expression on her face.

It is a sin to look away.

Jon takes this in full, eyes not allowing a strand of her hair go unnoticed. His behavior should shock him but again, _selfishness_.

And sometimes, in his defense (he thinks), he’s not always this lucky. Sometimes, he finds her too soon—too young that he grows restless and just decides to keep away. Sometimes, he finds her too late, already in the arms of another that he literally spends a lifetime watching her from a far.

Sometimes, her situation is just all too painful. When he finds her and then hears of an older brother named Robert or a younger sister named Arianne—a father named Edward, a mother, Cathy, with the same striking red hair and blue eyes. All of it seems too familiar; a certainty that tells him they are ghosts that live deep inside the recesses of his heart he aches even if unknowing of why.

Simply, it’s a moment of cowardice. Simply, Jon cannot take the gravity of it all. If only he could remember, maybe he can find a way to undo what he feels, what he sees, what he’s done.

Because maybe, just maybe, _what if he had not plunged the knife in her heart?_

He watches as she slows down, a wide grin plastered on her face—and then a tall man blocking her view.

_Ahh_.

Jon shakes his head at the irony. It seems this is a version where he is too late. _Again_.

He has seen him before. That man—tall and blonde—with blue eyes that could match hers. Three times he walked her from the pastry shop to her apartment; once, they went on a date. Then five times a week orders a bagel for breakfast from her shop.

Jon internally groans because that sounded pathetic. He should not have known those details but he does. He is her keeper anyway—whether she knows it or not.

The tall man swirls her further to the other side and Jon thinks, maybe that is also his cue for the day. He can always have another glimpse tomorrow.

So he huffs, pulling his jacket tighter and standing up from the bench. He turns to take a final glance, of course, and searches for that hair he loves so much, spotting her--them--in an embrace. Jon tells himself that this is not the first time this happened and he could endure more than just a hug but still, he winces.

After, when she is released and turns and accidentally glances _his_ way—she gives a surprised look.

Jon takes a breath at the suddenness again and holds her gaze. Perhaps, this moment would be their first and last connection in this lifetime so he indulges himself quite so fully. He is slightly aware of their surroundings but he doesn't care; where the random laughter and cheers from the others with them in the park make their background music, the fairy lights glowing all around them, the sea of faces in between them—jarring him ever so slightly—the distance that allows the small chaos of strangers to pass by to and fro and yet, they don’t let go.

She stares back at him in wonder.

_Who are you?_ she seems to ask.

But that does not matter to Jon. What matters is that even if she forgets, he doesn’t.

_And what difference that makes._

So even if faintly, even if he knows it would not reach her, he speaks.

It slides smoothly out of his lips like a caress.

He says it once.

Then he says it again—like a promise, like when he did so once upon a time; when he saw her in the middle of a courtyard, distressed and disheveled but there, waiting for him to get closer.

With unbridled passion, he whispers:

_“Sansa.”_

* * *

 


End file.
